


John

by 1dasfudge



Category: The Beatles
Genre: I don't know, I suck at tags, Other, booo, it's a ghost story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-25 18:47:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6206359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1dasfudge/pseuds/1dasfudge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary sees her five year old adopted son Paul playing in the garden. she notices that he's talking to himself. She soon finds out that Paul has been speaking to John. Who is John?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Who is John?

**Author's Note:**

> The word queer is in there a couple times, the original definition is weird, or odd. I hope it doesn't offend anyone.  
> Paul is adopted and John is from a "different" family. I don't want to spoiler anything!  
> I got the idea of posting this cause i just read a bunch of short ghost stories  
> One last thing: This is my first fic!  
> Chapter 2 will be up soon :)

_Such ordinary things make me afraid. Sunshine. Sharp shadows on grass. White roses. Children with brown and black hair. And the name John. Such an ordinary name._

  Yet the first time Paul mentioned the name, I felt a premonition of fear.

  He was five years old, due to start school in three months' time. It was a hot beautiful day and he was playing alone in the garden, as he often did. I saw him laying on his stomach on the grass, picking daisies and making daisy-chains with laborious pleasure. The sun burned on his dark black hair and made his skin look very white. His big hazel eyes were wide with concentration. Suddenly he looked the bush of white roses, which is cast its shadow over the grass, and smiled.

  'Yes, I'm Paul,' he said. He rose and walked slowly towards the bush, his plump little legs defenseless and endearing beneath the too short blue cotton shorts. He was growing fast.

  'With mummy and daddy,' he said clearly. Then, after a pause, 'Oh, but they  _are_ my mummy and daddy.'

  He was in the shadow of the bush. It was as if he'd walked out of the world of light into darkness. Uneasy, without quite knowing why, I called him:

  'Paul what are you doing?'

  'Nothing.' The voice sounded too far away.

  'Come indoors now. It's too hot for you out there.'

  'Not too hot.'

  'Come indoors, Paul'

  He said: 'I must go in now. Goodbye,' then walked slowly towards the house.

  'Paul, who were you talking to?'

  'John,' he said.

  'Who's John?'

  'John.'

  I couldn't get anything else out of him, so I just gave him some cake and milk and read to him until bedtime. As he listened, he stared out at the garden. Once he smiled and waved. It was a relief finally to tuck him up in bed and feel he was safe.

 When Jim, my husband, came home I told him about the mysterious 'John'. He laughed.

  'Oh, he's started that lark, has he?'

  'What do you mean, Jim?'

  'It's not so very rare for only children to have imaginary companion. Some kids talk to their dolls. He hasn't any brothers or sisters. He hasn't any friends his own age. So he imagines someone.'

  'But has he picked that particular name?'

  He shrugged. 'You know how kids pick things up. I don't know what you're worrying about, honestly I don't.'

  'Nor do I really. It's just I feel extra responsible for him. More so than if i were his real mother.'

  'I know, but he's all right. Paul is fine. He's a handsome, healthy, intelligent, little boy. A credit to you.'

  'And to you.'

  'In fact, we're thoroughly nice parents!'

  'And so modest!'

  We laughed together and he kissed me. I felt consoled.

  Until next morning.

  Again the sun shone brilliantly on the small, bright lawn and white roses. Paul was sitting on the grass, cross-legged, staring towards bush smiling.

  'Hello,' he said. 'I hoped you'd come. . .Because I like you. How old are you?. . .I'm only five and a piece. . .I'm  _not_ a baby! I'm going to school soon and I shall have a new uniform. A blue one. Do you go to school?. . .What do you do then?' He was silent for a while, nodding, listening, absorbed.

  I felt myself going cold as I stood there in the kitchen. 'Don't be silly. Lots of children have an imaginary companion,' I told myself desperately. 'Just carry on as if nothing were happening. Don't listen. Don't be a fool.'

  But I called Paul in earlier than usual for his mid-morning milk.

  'Your milk's ready, Paul. Come along.'

  'In a minute.' This was a strange reply. Usually he rushed in eagerly for his milk and the special sandwich cream biscuits, over which he was a little gourmande.

  'Come now, darling,' I said.

  'Can John come too?'

  'No!' The cry burst from me harshly, surprising me.

  'Goodbye, John I'm sorry you can't come in but I've got to have my milk,' Paul said, then ran towards the house.

  'Why can't John have some milk too?' he challenged me.

  'Who _is_  John, darling?'

  'John's my brother.'


	2. John! John!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul starts to play with John more often now and its driving Mary crazy.

'But Paul, you haven't got a brother. Daddy and mummy have only got one child, one little boy, that's you. John can't be your brother.'

'John's my brother. He says so.' He bend over the glass of milk and emerged with a smeary top lip. Then he grabbed the biscuits. At least 'John' hadn't spoilt his appetite! After he'd had his milk, I said, 'We'll go shopping now, Paul. You'd like to go to the shops with me, wouldn't you?' 

'I want to stay with John.'

'Well you can't. You're coming with me.'

'Can John come to?'

'No.'

My hands were trembling as I put on my hat and gloves. It was chilly in the house nowadays, as if there were a cold shadow over it  in spite of the sun outside. Paul came with me meekly enough, but as we walked down the street, he turned and waved.

I didn't mention any of this to Jim that night. I knew he'd only scoff as he'd done before. But when Paul's 'John' fantasy went on day after day, it got more and more on my nerves. I came to hate and dread those long summer days. I longed for grey skies and rain. I longed for the white roses to wither and die. I trembled when I heard Paul's prattling away in the garden. He talked quite unrestrainedly to 'John' now.

One Sunday, when Jim heard him at it, he said:

'I'll say one thing for imaginary companions, they help a child on with his talking. Paul is talking much more freely than he used to.'

'With an accent,' I blurted out.

'An accent?'

'A slight Liverpudlian accent.'

'My dearest, every London child gets a slight Liverpool accent. It'll be much worse when he goes to school and meets lots of other kids.'

'We don't talk Liverpool. Where does he get it from? Who can he be getting it from except Jo. . .' I couldn't say the name.

'The baker, the milkman, the dustman, the coalman, the window cleaner-want any more?'

'I suppose not.' I laughed ruefully. Jim made me feel foolish.

'Anyway.' said Jim, ' _I_ haven't noticed any Liverpool in his voice.'

'There isn't when he talks to us. It's only when he talking to-to him.'

'To John. You know, I'm getting quite attached to young John. Wouldn't it be fun if one day we looked out the window and saw him?'

'Don't!' I cried. 'Don't say that! It's my nightmare. My waking nightmare. Oh, Jim, I can't bear it much longer.'

He looked astonished. 'This John business is really getting you down, isn't it?'

'Of course it is! Day in, day out, I hear nothing but "John this," "John that," "John says," "John thinks," "Can John have some?", "Can John come too?"-it's all right for you out at work all day, but I have to live with it: I'm-I'm afraid of it, Jim. It's so queer.'

'Don't you know what I think you should do to put your mind at rest?'

'What?'

'Take Paul along to see old Dr Webster tomorrow. Let him have a little talk with him.'

'Do you think he's ill-in his mind?'

'Good heavens, no! But when we come across something that's a bit beyond us, it's well to take professional advice.'

Next day I took Paul to see Dr Webster. I left him in the waiting-room while I told briefly about John. He nodded sympathetically, then said:

'It's fairly unusual case, Mrs McCartney, but by no means unique. I've had several cases of children's imaginary companions becoming so real to them that the parents got the jitters. I expect he's rather a lonely little boy, isn't he?'

'He doesn't know any other children. We're new to the neighborhood, you see. But that will be put right when he starts school.'

'And I think you'll find that when he goes to school and meets other children, these fantasies will disappear. You see, every child needs company of his own age. And if if he doesn't get it, he invents it. Older people who are lonely talk to themselves. That doesn't mean that they're crazy, just that they need to talk to someone. A child if more practical. Seems silly to talk to oneself, he thinks, so he invents someone to talk to. I honestly don't think you've anything to worry about.'

'That's what my husband says,'

'I'm sure he does. Still I'll have a chat with Paul as you brought him. Leave us along together,'

I went to the waiting-room to fetch Paul. He was at the window. He said: 'John's waiting.'

'Where Paul?' I said quietly, wanting suddenly to see with his eyes.

'There, By the rose bush'

The doctor had a bush of white roses in his garden.

'There's no one there,' I said. Paul gave me a glance of unchildrenlike scorn. 'Dr Webster wants to see you now, darling,' I said shakily. 'You remember him, don't you? He gave you sweets when you were getting better from chicken pox'

'Yes,' he said and went willingly enough to see the doctor's surgery. I waited relentlessly. Faintly I heard their voices through the wall, heard the doctor chuckle, Paul's high peal of laughter. He was talking away to the doctor in a way he didn't talk to me.

When they came out, he said: 'Nothing wrong with him whatever. He's just an imaginary little monkey. A word of advice, Mrs McCartney. Let him talk about John. Let him become accustomed to confiding in you. I gather you've shown some disapproval of this "brother" of his so he doesn't talk much to you about him. He draws a lot, doesn't he Paul?'

'Yes, John likes to draw.'

'And he can read and write, can't he?'

'And swim and climb trees and play a mouth organ.  Johnny can do everything. He's a wonderful brother.' His little face flushed with adoration.

The doctor patted me on the shoulder and said: 'John sounds a very nice brother to him. He even got brown hair, Paul, hasn't he?'

'Johnny's got brown hair,' Paul said proudly, lighter than my hair. And he's nearly as tall than daddy only a little thicker. He's as tall as you, mummy. He's fourteen. He says he's tall for his age. What  _is_ tall for his age?'

'Mummy will tell you about that as you walk home,' said Dr Webster. 'Now, goodbye, Mrs McCartney. Don't worry. Just let him prattle. Goodbye, Paul. Give my love to John.'

'He's there,' said Paul, pointing to the doctor's garden. 'He's been waiting for me.'

Dr Webster laughed. 'They're incorrigible, aren't they?' he said. 'I knew one poor mother whose children invented a whole tribe of imaginary natives whose rituals and taboos ruled the household. Perhaps you're lucky, Mrs McCartney!'

I tried to feel comforted by all this, but I wasn't. I hoped sincerely that when Paul started school this wretched John business would finish.

Paul ran ahead of me. He looked as if at someone beside him. For a brief, dreadful second, I saw a shadow on the pavement alongside his own-a long, thick shadow-like a boy's shadow. Then it was gone. I ran to catch him up and comparative security of the house-the house so strangely cold in this hot weather-I never let him out of my side. On the face of it he behaved no differently towards me, but in reality he was drifting away. The child in my house was becoming a stranger.

For the first time since Jim and I adopted Paul, I wondered seriously: Who is he? Where does he come from? Who was his real parents? Who was the little loved stranger I've taken as a son? Who is _James?_  

Another week passed. It was John, John all the time.

The day before he was to start school, Paul said:

'Not going to school.'

'You're going to school tomorrow, Paul. Your looking forward to it. You know you are. There'll be lots of other little boys.'

'John says he can't come too.'

'You won't want John at school. He'll-' I tried to follow the doctor's advice and appear to believe in John-'He'll be too old. He'd feel silly among little boys, a great lad of fourteen,'

'I won't go to school without John. I want to be with John!'

He began to weep, loudly, painfully.

'Paul, stop this nonsense! Stop it!' I struck him sharply on the arm. His crying ceased immediately. He stared at me, his hazel eyes were wide open and frighteningly cold. He gave me an adult stare that made me tremble. Then he shouted:

'You don't love me! John loves me!! John wants me!!! He says I can go with him!!!!'

I will not hear anymore of this! I shouted hating the anger in my voice, hating myself for being angry at all with a little boy- _my_ little boy-mine-

I went down on one knee and held out my arms.

'Paul, darling, come here.'

He came, slowly. 'I love you,' I said. 'I love you, Paul, and I'm real. School is real. Go to school to please me.'

'John will go away if I do.'

'You'll have other friends.'

'I want Johnny.' Again the tears, wet against my shoulder now. I held him closely.

'You're tired, baby. Come to bed.'

He slept with tear stains still on his face.

It was still daylight. I went to the window to draw his curtains. Golden shadows and long strips of sunshine in the garden. Then, again like a dream, the long thin clear-cut shadow of a boy near the white roses. Like a mad woman I opened the window and shouted: 'John! John!' I thought I saw a glimmer of brown among the roses, like close brown curls on a boys head. Then there was nothing.

 


	3. James Lennon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary wants to know who Paul really is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to make this the final chapter but I felt like this will need one more chapter. And I hate odd numbers teehee.

When I told Jim about Paul's emotional outburst he said: 'Poor little kid. It's always a nervy business, starting school. He'll be alright once he gets there. You'll be hearing less about John too, as time goes on.'

'John doesn't want him to go to school.'

'Hey! You sound as if you believe in John yourself!' 

'Sometimes I do.'

'Believing in evil spirits in your old age?' he teased me. But his eyes were concerned. He thought I was going 'round the bend' and a small blame to him! 

'I don't think John's evil,' I said. 'He's just a boy. A boy who doesn't exist, except for Paul. And who  _is_ Paul?'

'None of that!' said Jim sharply. 'When we adopted Paul we decided he was to be our own child. No probing into the past. No wondering and worrying. No mysteries. Paul is as much our as if he'd been born of our flesh. Who is Paul indeed! He's our son-and just you remember that!'

'Yes, Jim, you're right. Of course you're right.'

He'd been so fierce about it that I didn't tell him what I planned to do the next day while Paul was at school. 

Next morning Paul was quiet and sulky. Jim joked with him and tried to cheer him, but all he would do was look out of the window and say: 'John's gone.'

'You don't need John now. You're going to school,' said Jim.

Paul gave him that look of grown-up contempt he'd given me sometimes.

He and I didn't speak as I took him to school. I was almost in tears. Although I was glad for him to start school, I felt a sense of loss at parting with him. I suppose every mother feels that when she takes her ewe-lamb to school for the first time. It's the end of babyhood for the child, the beginning of life in reality, life with its cruelty, its strangeness, its barbarity. I kissed him goodbye at the gate and said: 'You'll be having dinner at school with the other children, Paul, and I'll call you when school is over, at three o'clock.'

'Yes, mummy.' He held my hand tightly. Other nervous little children were arriving with equally nervous parents. A pleasant young teacher with fair hair and a white linen dress appeared at the gate. she gathered the new children towards her and lead them away. She gave me a sympathetic smile as she passed and said: 'We'll take good care of him.' I felt quite light-hearted as I walked away, knowing that Paul was safe and I didn't have to worry.

Now I started my secret mission.

I took a bus to town and went to the big, gaunt building I hadn't visited for over five years. Then, Jim and I had gone together. The top floor of the building belonged to the Greythorne Adoption Society. I climbed the four flights and knocked on the familiar door with its scratched paint. A secretary whose face i didn't know let me in.

'May I see Miss Cleaver? My name is Mrs McCartney.'

'Have you an appointment?'

'No, but it's very important.'

'I'll see.' The girl went out and returned a second later. 

'Miss Cleaver will see you, Mrs McCartney.'

Miss Cleaver, a tall, thin, grey haired woman with a charming smile, a plain, kindly face and a very wrinkled brow, rose to meet me. 'Mrs McCartney. How nice to see you again. How's James?-'

'Paul. And he's very well. Miss Cleaver, I'd better get straight to the point. I know you don't normally divulge the origin of a child to its adopters and vise versa, but I must know who Paul is.'

'Sorry, Mrs McCartney,' she began, 'our rules. . . '

'Please let me tell you the whole story, then you'll see I'm not just suffering from vulgar curiosity.'

I told her about John.

When I finished, she said: It's very queer. Very queer indeed. Mrs McCartney, I'm going to break my rule for once. I'm going to tell you in strict confidence where Paul came from.

'He was born in the poor part of Liverpool. There were four in the family, father, mother, son, and Paul himself-or James at the time.'

'Son?'

'Yes, he was fourteen when-when it happened.'

'When what happened?'

'Let me start from the beginning. The parents hadn't really wanted James. The family lived in one room at the top of an old house which should be have been condemned by the Sanitary Inspector in my opinion. It was difficult enough when there were only three of them, but with a baby as well life became a nightmare. The only mother was a neurotic creature, slatternly, unhappy. After she'd had the baby she took no interest in it. The brother however, adored the little boy from the start. He got into trouble for cutting school so he could look after him. The father had a steady job in a warehouse, not much money, but enough to keep them alive. Then he was sick for several weeks and lost his job. He was laid up in that messy room, ill, worrying, nagged by his wife, irked by the baby's crying and his son's eternal fussing over the child-I got all these details from the neighbors afterwards, by the way. I was also told that he'd had a particularly bad time in the war and had been in a nerve hospital for several months before he was fit to come home at all after his demob. Suddenly it all proved too much for him. One morning, in the small hours, a woman in the ground floor room saw something fall past her window and heard a thud on the ground. She went out for a look. The son of the family was there on the ground. James was in his arms.Th boy's neck was broken. The boy was dead. James was blue in the face but still breathing faintly. The woman woke the household, sent for the police and the doctor, then they went to the top room. They had to break down the door, which was locked and sealed inside. An overpowering smell of gas greeted them, in spite of the open window. They found the husband and the wife dead in the bed and a note from the husband saying: _"I can't go on. I am going to kill them all. It's the only way."_ The police concluded that he'd sealed door and widows and turned on the gas when his family was asleep, then lain beside his wife until he drifted into unconsciousness, and death. But the son must have wakened.Perhaps he struggled with the door but couldn't open it. He'd be too weak to shout. All he could do was pluck away the seals from the window, open it, and fling himself out out, holding his adored little brother tightly in his arms. Why James himself wasn't gassed is rather a mystery. Perhaps his head was right under the bed-covers, pressed against his brothers chest-they always slept together. Anyway, the child was taken to the hospital, then to the home where you and Mr McCartney first saw him. . .  and a lucky day that was for little James-er-Paul! 

'So his brother saved his life then died himself?' I said.

'Yes. He was a very brave man.'

'Perhaps he thought not so much of saving him as of keeping him with him. Oh dear! That sounds ungenerous. I didn't mean to be. Miss Cleaver, what was his name?'

'I'll have to look that up for you.' She referred to one of her many files and said at last: 'The family name was Lennon and the fourteen year old brother was called "Johnathan".'

'And did he have brown hair?' I murmured.

'That I don't know, Mrs McCartney.'

'But it's John. The boy was John. What does it mean? I can't understand it.'

'It's not easy, but i think perhaps deep in his unconscious mind Paul always remembered John, and the companion of his babyhood. We don't think of children as having much memory, but there must be images of the past tucked away somewhere in their little heads. Paul doesn't  _invent_ this John. He _remembers_ him. So clearly that he's almost brought him back to life again. I know it sounds far-fetched, but the whole story is so odd that I can't think of any other explanation.'

'May I have the address of the house where they lived?'


	4. John-such an ordinary name!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This whole 'John' business ends...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last! The end! I really hope you enjoyed this story! I loved writing it! :)

She was reluctant to give me this information, but I persuaded her and set out at last to find 251 Menlove Ave, where the man Lennon had tried to kill himself and his whole family and almost succeeded.

The house seemed deserted. It was filthy and derelict. But one thing made me stare and stare. There was a tiny garden. A scatter of bright uneven grass splashed the bald brown patches of earth. But the little garden had one strange glory that none of the other houses in the poor sad street possessed-a bush of white roses. They bloomed gloriously. Their sent was overpowering.

I stood by the bush and stared up at the top window.

A voice startled me: 'What are you doing here?'

It was an old woman, peering from the ground floor window.

'I thought the house was empty,' I said.

'Shouldn't be. Been condemned. But they can't get me out. Nowhere else to go. Won't go. The others went quickly enough after in happened. No one else wants to come. They say the place is haunted. So it is. But what's the fuss about? Life and death. They're so close. You get to know that when you're old. Alive of dead. What's the difference?'

She looked at me with yellowish, bloodshot eyes and said: 'I saw him fall past my window. That's where he fell. Among the roses.  He still comes back. I see him. He won't go away until he gets him.'

'Who-who are you talking about?'

'John Lennon. Nice boy he was. Brown hair. Kind of thick. Too determined though. Always got his own way. Loved James too much I thought. Died among the roses. Used to sit down here with him for hours, by the roses. Then died there. Or do people die? The church ought to give us an answer, but it doesn't . Not one of you can believe. Go away, will you? This place isn't for you. It's for the dead who aren't dead, and the living who aren't alive. Am I alive or dead? You tell me. I don't know.'

The crazy eyes staring at me beneath the matted white fringe of hair frightened me. Mad people are terrifying. One can pity them, but one is still afraid. I murmured: 'I'll go now. Goodbye,' and tried to hurry across the hard hot pavements although my legs felt heavy and half-paralyzed, as in a nightmare.

The sun blazed down on my head, but i was hardly aware of it. I lost sense of time as I drove on the bus.

Then I heard something that chilled my blood.

A clock struck three.

At three o'clock I was supposed to be at the school gates, waiting for Paul.

Where was I now? How near the school? What bus was I on?

I made frantic inquires of passers-by, who looked at me fearfully, as I had looked at the old  woman. They must have thought I was crazy.

At last I caught the right bus and, sick with dust, petrol fumes and fear, reached the school. I ran across the hot, empty playground. In a classroom, the young teacher in white was was gathering her books together.

'I've come for Paul McCartney. I'm his mother. I'm so sorry I'm late. Where is he?' I gasped.

'Paul McCartney?' The girl frowned, then said brightly: 'Oh, yes, I remember, the handsome little black-haired boy. That's all right, Mrs McCartney. His brother called for him. How alike they are, aren't they? and so devoted. It's rather sweet to see a boy of that age so fond of his baby brother. Has your husband got brown hair, like the older brother?'

'What did-his brother-say?' I asked faintly.

'He didn't say anything. When I spoke to him, he just smiled. They'll be home by now, I should think. I say, do you feel all right?'

'Yes, thank you I must go home.'

I ran all the way home through the burning streets.

'Paul! Paul, where are you?! James?! Paul?!' Sometimes even now I hear my own voice of the past screaming through the cold house. 'Paul! Paul! where are you?! Answer me! Jaaammmeess!!!' Then: 'John! Don't take him away! come back! John! John!'

Demented, I rushed out into the garden. The sun struck me like a hot blade. The roses glared whitely. The air was so still I seemed to stand In timelessness, placelessness. For a moment, I seemed very near to Paul, although I couldn't see him. Then the roses danced before my eyes and turned red. Blood red. Wet read. I fell through redness to blackness to nothingness-to almost death.

For weeks I was in bed with sunstroke which turned to brain fever. During that time Jim and the police searched for Paul in vain. The futile search continued months. The papers were full of the strange disappearance of the black-haired child, The teacher described the '"brother" who had called for him. There was newspaper stories of kidnapping, baby-snatching, child-murders.

Then the sensation died down. Just another unsolved mystery in police files.

And only two people knew what had happened. An old crazed woman living in a derelict house, and myself.

Years have passed. But I walk in fear.

_Such ordinary things make me afraid. Sunshine, Sharp shadows on grass. White roses. Children with brown and black hair. And the name-John. Such an ordinary name!_


End file.
